


Home by Christmas

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas Eve, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-World War I, Retirement, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 15:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: Their first Christmas after the Great War and Watson doesn't know what to do with himself.





	Home by Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> While not explicitly Granada!'verse, it's the first thing I've written with Brett and Hardwicke specifically in mind.

Children say that Christmas Eve Day is the longest of the year. When one is grown up there are things to do, work to be done, presents to be wrapped, visits to be paid. When one is a child, there is nothing but clocks that tick too slowly and sweets that must be saved for tomorrow. Too many hours stand between now and the morning. 

This year, though he is certainly not a child, John Watson feels the same anticipation. The house full of quiet and warmth. In a corner of the parlor, their little tree decorated in its festive best. Scarcely after four and already the smell of roast goose is everywhere, debilitating in its richness. Only a few more hours now and it shall be Christmas. Their first Christmas after the War.

“I say,” Watson asks, “Shall we exchange our gifts now, or wait until the morning?”

An overture of crackling newsprint and pipe stem on teeth.

“Hmm. I haven’t much preference. Have you?”

“No,” he says, reflexively. 

“Let’s wait until morning, then.”

“Yes. All right.”

The clock on the mantel does not need winding. There is no snow to clear off the walk. The Christmas cards have all been sent, save the phone call Holmes will make to Mycroft in the morning—shouting into the receiver as if that is how his voice carries to London. In the kitchen, Mrs. Keeler has told him four times already that she does not require any assistance.

Around he goes about the house once more. The bedrooms are perfectly tidy. The bath is immaculately clean. Mrs. Keeler is leaving tonight for her sister’s in Dartmoor and won’t be back until Thursday. She hasn’t left a speck of dust anywhere. The study is a predictable mess. Impossible to move anything here without upsetting Holmes’s carefully curated piles. There is a picture rail in the hall, so the frames can hardly fail to be straight. The dining table has been set since lunchtime.

Back in the parlor, there is nothing that needs doing. Holmes puts down the newspaper and peers at him through his spectacles. The expression that flashes across Holmes’s face is brief, but a familiar one: considering a puzzle and discovering a solution.

“There you are, John,” Holmes declares. “Would you be so kind as to drive me into town?”

“To town?”

“Yes, the paper says we’re to have wet weather this week and I ought to replace the moisture quilt in my hive. Thompson’s should have everything I need.”

“Thompson’s’ll be closed.”

“Closed?”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, right. Do you suppose the shops might still be open in Brighton?”

“We could go and see.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, no,” he says, again reflexively, but this time it’s the truth as well. “I should be glad to.”

“Excellent!” Holmes is up from his chair and they are both in pursuit of their overcoats. “Mrs. Keeler, please keep the goose where he is; we shall be back shortly!”

Twenty-three miles to Brighton. If anyplace is open now, it would surely be shut up by the time they get there. They won’t be home again until well after six—hopefully Mrs. Keeler knows better than to trust Holmes’s definition of ‘shortly’. Then supper and then to bed. So much for the longest day of the year.

In the motorcar, Holmes is expounding upon the importance of properly winter-proofing the hive boxes, chiding himself for having left it so late. It is all a ruse, of course, and the obviousness of it brings a smile to Watson’s lips. The evening air is heavy with the wet smell of dead leaves. The trees are putting on shadow plays in the headlights. 

Watson lays his hand on Holmes’s knee. Holmes adds his own to the pile. When they’re paused at a crossroads, Holmes takes Watson’s hand in his.

“My dear,” he says, “I am very glad to have you home again.”

There is no one else on this stretch of road. The winter moon demurely dips behind a cloud. When they kiss, there is only an owl present to voice an objection. Gently, the motorcar eases through the intersection and on her way.

“So tell me again about this moisture quilt,” Watson begins, his tone and posture full of purpose, “What exactly do you need for it?”

Holmes names things which they almost certainly have in the garden shed back home. Canvas, lumber, wood chips, fencing wire. Then some impossible things, which can’t have any connection to beekeeping. Rubber tubing, milliner’s lace, Indian ink. It is a wonderful night for a drive. Already Watson can feel the hum and rumble of the road beneath the wheels scrubbing away at every grim thought. The quiet realization that he really is home, after all. Home. And tomorrow will be Christmas.


End file.
